


Blueberry

by SomeSleepySloth



Series: Mom, Please Let Me Sleep and Don't Keep Me Awake With All These Ideas [1]
Category: Boyfriend Material - Alexis Hall
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeSleepySloth/pseuds/SomeSleepySloth
Summary: A glimpse into the (happy) future of these two very loveable and soft boys
Relationships: Oliver Blackwood/Luc O'Donnell
Series: Mom, Please Let Me Sleep and Don't Keep Me Awake With All These Ideas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909693
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Blueberry

_ DUM DUM DUM DA DA DUM DA DA DUM. _

Fuck fuck fuck. I lunge for my phone on the bedside dresser to turn my alarm off, breathing a sigh of relief when I realise that my bed companion is still slumbering away peacefully.

Thank goodness I haven’t fucked it up yet. I check the time on my phone, and let out a silent groan of dismay. Six am. SIX AM in the bloody morning, and I am actually awake,  _ voluntarily _ . And hell hasn’t even frozen over. Wow. 

I scoot up the bed, and rest my weary body against the headboard just for a minute. I am aching in places I didn’t even know could ache, and it isn’t even the good kind of an ache. But it was all worth it, I think to myself, as I glance around my room.

Or rather,  _ our _ room, to be more accurate. And I can’t resist the grin forming on my face at the thought of it being  _ our _ room. I, Luc O’Donnell, not only managed to nab myself an amazing boyfriend, I had also somehow convinced said boyfriend to live with me. 

Bridge says this has been in the making for so long and she expects us to name our first born after her. I told her she could go suck a dick. Which she apparently did, because I got a ‘thank you’ text from Tom the next day. What an arse.

As I reminisce about the journey that Oliver and I have been on which led us to buying our very own flat, my boyfriend is still lost in his dreamland, making the most adorable snuffling snores. I would tease him about it usually, but on this occasion, I should probably cut him some slack. 

After all, he did very kindly unpack most of the moving boxes yesterday, sorting everything into their correct positions, while I happily sat on our couch, openly ogling his shirtless body. Look, he has an Apollo’s belt, and it is definitely my duty as his darling boyfriend to express my admiration for it as often as I can. 

But all that physical exertion has evidently worn him out because he snoozes on, despite my  _ Imperial March _ alarm being loud enough to rouse the dead. 

I glance down at him, and my heart skips a beat; Oliver’s tall frame is hunched over in his sleep, curling in on himself, like an adorable koala. His dark blond hair fanning out on the pillow, like a halo. He certainly looks angelic, and has the personality of one too. I can’t help the wry grin that unfurls on my face as I recall how he had advocated so passionately for a reformative legal system over our takeaway dinner -

_ (I know, Lucien, sed lex dura lex. But do you not think that we will have failed the minors who are being trialed in court if we did not adopt a more reformative approach? ) _

He is such a dork. But he is  _ my _ dork, a fond smile forming on my face as I run my fingers through his smooth blond strands. As the sun beams extend their reach across the floorboard, I reluctantly detach my fingers from Oliver’s hair. I needed time to create my surprise before Oliver woke up, and I should get started on it soon.

Thankfully, Oliver had the foresight to unpack the kitchen first yesterday, and even bothered stocking it with groceries, because all I had wanted to break in our new bed. Which did not happen sadly, although not for a lack of trying on my part.

I quickly gathered the ingredients that I would need to make the most delicious french toast known to mankind. Oliver wouldn’t know what hit him. Or actually he would, what hit him would be the best french toast ever.

I had seen him whip the breakfast dish often enough over our Saturday breakfasts, to know what to do. I deftly beat the eggs, before adding some mixed spice to it.

_ “The secret ingredient, Lucien, is mixed spice,” Oliver said with a wink, shaking the glass bottle in my direction. “It is always good to spice things up.”  _

We did certainly spice things up in the kitchen afterwards, although our french toast lacked the distinctive kick to it because the glass bottle accidentally got smashed in our endeavour to add some spice.  _ Oops. _

I toss the butter into the pan and once I hear the first sizzle, I drop the egg-soaked bread into it. As the bread cooks away merrily in the pan, I stride across the kitchen to grab the other items needed to assemble my breakfast. Icing sugar, syrup, coffee, and my secret ingredient. I let out a little cackle as I retrieve my very secret ingredient from the fridge.

Once all components of the Luc Breakfast Special have been placed on the tray, I make my way back to our bedroom. As I sink into the firm mattress, I can’t help but give thanks to my past self for caving in to Oliver’s demands for a proper mattress.  _ (Luc, that monstrosity you sleep on is most certainly not a mattress, it is so springy, I am starting to wonder if you had accidentally purchased a trampoline by accident!)  _ At least on this mattress, I can move and wiggle in place, without causing a spring on the other side of the bed to poke poor Oliver in his sleep. 

I would have been content to let Oliver sleep in, after the long day we had yesterday, but I am far too eager to have him try the Luc Breakfast Special, so I gently shake him awake. Only for Oliver to swat my hand away and burrow himself deeper into his duvet cocoon. Well that won’t do. The breakfast is getting cold. Time for more drastic measures.

With a mischievous smirk on my face, I reach for my secret weapon, choosing a particularly plump one, before launching it at my target. The first one has a soft landing in Oliver’s pillow. The second one hits him squarely in the forehead.  _ Strike! _

I resist the urge to whoop in joy when Oliver rubs his face against the pillow like a sleepy puppy, a sure sign that he is about to wake up. He swivels his head in my direction, cracking open a bleary eye to glare at me, although the menacing effect is somewhat ruined by his rumpled appearance.

“Did you just throw a blueberry at me?” he grumbled, his voice a rough timbre that I have come to associate with our sleepy and lazy mornings.

“Yeah I did. I made the Luc Breakfast Special and it’s getting cold,” I replied cheerfully, “So it’s time to wake up, sleepyhead.”

The mention of breakfast is apparently the key to waking Oliver up, because his eyes widen in excitement and his bright grin nearly blinds me with its ferocity. 

“Did you make your vegan bacon sandwich?” he asks eagerly, as he sheds his duvet to push himself into an upright position. 

His crestfallen expression when he catches sight of the french toast on my plate is priceless, and I cannot stifle the laughter that threatened to burst forth.

“I cannot believe you made french toast. It is only my first day as your official flatmate and I have already been fired from my position,” he says, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure, as his bottom lip sticks out in a pout, “And to think that I only get blueberries for my breakfast, while you get to indulge in french toast. This is quite the unfair distribution of food you have there.”

I reach out with my arm to tug him closer towards me, careful not to jostle the tray; there would be hell to pay if I accidentally spilt our breakfast onto the sheets. His tall frame makes it easier for me to snuggle into him, but I know he secretly loves the feeling of being tucked securely under my arm, as if it served as a barrier against the demands of the world that he had to face once outside of our happy little bubble. 

“Nah, you aren’t fired, think I’ll keep you around for a while more, wouldn’t want some poor lad to be saddled with you,” I teased. 

“What a relief. I would have hated having to search for another boyfriend, it was a real hassle the last time I tried to get myself one,” he bantered back.

I puffed up in mock indignation, “Oi. Are you calling me a hassle, Mister?”

“If the shoe fits,” he shoots back. “Anyway, even if you are a hassle, you are  _ my _ hassle.” I suppress a snort at that, god, my sense of humour was definitely rubbing off on him.

“How romantic Oliver, I am about to faint in your arms from all the swooning,” I replied, with a deadpan expression on my face.

“I’m kidding. I love you Luc,” he replies, voice ever so soft and gentle, “I love you so much”. And when he presses a kiss to the side of my neck, the nearest spot within reach from his position under my arm, I feel my eyelids flutter close, allowing myself to bask in the blissfulness of it all.

“I love you Oliver,” I reply, ducking down to press a chaste kiss against his lips. A chaste kiss, that made my heart nearly burst with joy nonetheless. The tenderness of it, it felt like jumping into a pile of leaves, knowing that you would have a soft landing, because the leaves would cushion your fall, no matter what. 

Falling for Oliver was the easiest part of it all, but trusting that Oliver would catch me when I fell, that he wouldn’t send me crashing into the floor? That took effort, on both of our parts. And the rush of joy that surged through me every time Oliver did something that made me fall in love with him, just a little more, that took some getting used to. These chaste morning kisses, this slice of domesticity felt like a reward, a hard-fought reward for us choosing to put our faith in each other, choosing to trust and love each other, knowing that we would be there for each other, no matter what. It made me feel… safe, safe and powerful, knowing that I had the same effect on Oliver as well. Something I vowed to never take for granted.

I gently nudged Oliver back, as his neck craned up to deepen our kiss. “Come on, breakfast’s getting cold.”

“My blueberries are already cold, they came from the fridge, they can wait a little longer,” Oliver whinges.

“Did you think I would be mean enough to only serve you blueberries for breakfast, Oliver Blackwood?” I cry out, clutching my heart, as if I was a Victorian lady in desperate need of her fainting couch.

When Oliver gives me an unimpressed stare, I smugly tell him, “I will have you know that I used vegan eggs for these french toasts.”

I don’t often catch Oliver off-guard, the man is usually unruffled and composed, but sometimes, I slip under his guard, and like now, I get to thoroughly enjoy the look of complete surprise on his face.

“Oh Lucien...” he sighs fondly, expression softening. And I can’t resist the urge to lean in for another kiss.

“So don’t you complain about me only serving you blueberries, Mister,” I say, picking up the cutlery to cut a slice of french toast.

His mouth opens as my fork approaches with the slice, and his eyes crinkle in fondness as he takes his first bite. 

“Not bad for a first attempt,” he pronounces, once he has finished chewing.

“High praise indeed, from the French Toast Master.”

“Hush you, and feed me another slice please,” he says, opening his mouth, ready for his second bite, like a bloody impatient child.

I shake my hand in fondness as I comply with his order.

We spend our first morning in our bed just like that, me alternating between feeding Oliver and myself bites of french toast, and tossing blueberries in each other’s faces, mess be damned. 

This, this isn’t something I had envisioned for myself when my past was unceremoniously splashed in the tabloids six years ago by that fucking spinless ex of mine, but if this is what I had waiting for me at the end of it all, then I might just be the luckiest man in the world.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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